


Till this moment I never knew myself

by ComplicatedLight



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, M/M, Self-knowledge is a bittersweet thing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:12:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComplicatedLight/pseuds/ComplicatedLight
Summary: First of all, thank you to divingforstones for her invaluable encouragement and reflections on this fic. It's my first go at an historic AU, and being able to chew over linguistic choices and snippets of historical research with her was hugely helpful.Please note the tags -  all is not neatly resolved in this fic.





	1. Knighton Hall

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you to divingforstones for her invaluable encouragement and reflections on this fic. It's my first go at an historic AU, and being able to chew over linguistic choices and snippets of historical research with her was hugely helpful.
> 
> Please note the tags - all is not neatly resolved in this fic.

On a frigid February night in 1817, Philip, Lord Hathaway, 10th Earl of Knighton, passed from this life into the next, after a protracted illness. He had never been an easy man, but the long years following his wife’s death, and then especially the steadily increasing pain in the last three years of his life, had turned him from a difficult man into a tyrant; a furious, bed-ridden tyrant. 

James, Lord Hathaway, the 11th Earl, inherited Knighton Hall, the family ancestral home, on his father’s death. James, his sister, Nell, and the entire household, mourned Philip sincerely and at length, as propriety demanded; they mourned as any dutiful children and servants would, on the passing of their feared and respected father and master. Many find mourning a terrible thing, but James, although he would never own to it, found the enforced six months of peace and relative isolation not unpleasant, certainly in comparison to what had come before. He suspects Nell might have felt the same. They, and the household, have now been out of mourning for a while, but in some ways he misses being becalmed in their great house, as they were for those hushed spring and summer months.

The Knighton estate has been in James’ family for the best part of five hundred years, but the Hall itself, with its perfect, symmetrical principal façade, is a mere century old, or there about. It is an elegant house in the Carolean style, replacing the previous, somewhat less grand, Tudor home, which the 6th Earl had torn down to make way for the current, far more imposing, residence. The 6th earl’s intention, of course, had been to make evident to any who might be in doubt, that he was a man of phenomenal wealth. The rather lovely gardens at Knighton were landscaped by Sir Humphry Repton—an indulgence on Philip’s behalf, early in his marriage; an unspoken love letter to his young bride from a man sincere in his admiration of his wife but incapable of saying a word on the matter. 

Knighton has been James’ home his entire life, other than for the few years in his early twenties when he had resided in simple undergraduate accommodation whilst studying theology at Cambridge. Those brief years away from his father’s house, amongst Wordsworth’s admired turrets and pinnacles, represent his only real act of filial defiance. His father had wanted him to read the law so as to be of more use in managing the estate’s complex and never-ending legal matters. But, perhaps following entreaties from his by then ailing wife, the father had grudgingly given the son permission to pass a few sweet years wandering through those eastern meadows and fens, debating God and all His glorious works with other earnest young men. 

Nell, at thirty-seven, is the eldest child, but primogeniture dictates that, as the son, it is James’ God-given duty and right to inherit Knighton and all its lands and associated fortune. Nell, like James, is unmarried—one of several matters which had been a source of outrage to their father. She, naturally, also resides at Knighton, and runs the household with a calm efficiency. She has a small personal income from her father’s will, but no more than she requires to keep herself in hats and gloves and the other fripperies that a female member of the aristocracy finds herself in need of; even a woman like Nell, who lives year-round in the country and has no use for the London Season. So she has little financial independence, but also little financial responsibility; it has fallen to James to take on the many burdens and duties that running the estate entails. 

Heaven knows James wishes women could inherit. Nell is bright and organised and energetic and he has no doubt that she could oversee the estate and the portfolio of investments and properties with her characteristic competence. There have been many times since their father’s death when James has sincerely wished that Nell had inherited, leaving him to the peace and quiet of his library. Which is not to say that James finds occupation distasteful. On the contrary. The estate includes the usual kitchen gardens, orchard, and stables, and a sizable farm, renowned for its fine herd of Hereford beef cattle, and James always derives satisfaction from the exhausting days he spends on the farm, assisting with the digging of ditches and harvesting of barley and wheat. His farm labourers are perennially bemused by his presence, but they cannot argue that he’s anything but hard working and uncomplaining. And the physical work suits him. It is exhausting in a way that feels good in his muscles and sinews, and there is little need for idle talk amongst the men as they go about their labour—which suits him very well. If his contribution to the estate could be limited to occupation of this kind, he might be tolerably content.

But it is not to be. His life these days feels like an endless round of meetings with stewards and bankers and neighbours, which, sadly, he is unable to avoid. James dislikes meetings almost as much as he dislikes social events such as balls and amateur theatrics, but avoidance of those events is also proving difficult. James is now a man of fortune who remains unmarried, and is as tall and handsome a man as any lady might desire, so he is subject to a steady stream of invitations from local families, to entertainments and balls and hunts—some of which he does manage to politely decline. But, frustratingly, there’s also a steady stream of requests for meetings from his nearest neighbour, Sir Frederick Langley, whose land butts against the grazing at the south of the Knighton Estate. Langley is a good man, a decent country squire with no guile about him. But what he does have are three daughters to marry, and a wife who is far more intelligent and practical than her husband. And so Langley has rather cleverly (this must surely indicate the hand of Lady Langley!), taken to arranging meetings about land drainage and cattle breeding and the other numerous, tedious matters they must attend to, but insisting that these meetings be added to a luncheon or a shoot or some other torment; any opportunity to bring James into proximity with the Langley daughters.

James has nothing against Cordelia, Anne, and Harriet Langley; they’re all pleasant young women, and in fact Cordelia, the eldest, is extremely accomplished and holds many intelligent views on literature and poetry. Indeed, it was Cordelia who introduced James to Cottle and Southey’s epic volume of Icelandic poetry in translation, which he admires greatly, and about which Cordelia and he have had several diverting conversations. 

But James is careful not to encourage her or her family too much because he has no desire to marry. He feels nothing more than platonic affection and admiration towards even the best of women, such as Cordelia. And while many men and women of the aristocracy would consider this to be a perfectly satisfactory basis for a successful marriage, which is an economic and dynastic arrangement as much as anything else as far as many of his peers are concerned, James does not share this view. He is a man who in general is not particularly sociable, and he feels no great attraction or yearning in relation to the gentler sex. And this being the truth of the matter, he would not inflict a dull, passionless marriage on any woman—or on himself. He is not difficult or hostile like his father was; far from it. Indeed, James’ insistence on treating the people around him with fairness and respect, particularly those of lower status in society, no doubt has its roots in the painful crucible of his relationship with his father. But James is a rather awkward, bookish man. And he has enough understanding of himself to know that he would far rather spend his days striding through the more remote aspects of his estate, debating theological and philosophical matters with himself, than in any more sociable arrangement. 

And when striding through the landscape is not possible, on a night such as tonight, with barely a sliver of moon to light a person’s way through the fields and hedges, he likes, more than anything, to be ensconced in his warm, well-appointed library, a fire blazing in the hearth, a pair of hounds snoring on the rug, and a glass of claret to hand. But alas, tonight it cannot be, because the Langleys have devised a new form of torture for him. A much needed meeting between several local landowners has been made into an excuse for a ball, with a shoot on the morrow, so he must endure not only an evening of noise and dancing and a vexingly large volume of people, but also a night away from his home; from his beloved library. Even Nell, who by rights should also be expected to endure the ball, has feigned a head cold, and has withdrawn to her cosy parlour with a book of watercolours and a glass of their estate’s excellent elderberry wine. He knows that it is unworthy of him, he understands that she is frequently frustrated with the many restrictions imposed upon women in their stratum of society, but he does envy her for the lack of certain kinds of expectations placed upon her sex. 

But what can he do? He feels his duty to his family and the estate keenly, so to the best of his abilities he must fulfil the requirements of the situation God has seen fit to place him in. And tonight, that means giving his valet the evening off once James' few items for the overnight stay have been packed, calling for his carriage, and heading to Langley Place, rather heavy of heart.


	2. Langley Place

“Damn and blast it!” James can’t get his neck cloth to sit well. He’d tried to object when Langley had offered him the services of his valet—the idea that a gentleman is unable to bathe or dress himself is utterly preposterous. Yet here he is, cuffs askew, and tugging ineffectually at his confounded neck cloth, hoping that Langley’s man won’t be long. In fact, he’s starting to regret giving his own valet, Martindale, the evening off. James has just retied the blasted cloth for a third time, so tightly that he fears he may pass out for lack of air, when there’s a knock at the door. A solidly-built man in his fifties enters. 

“I’m Lewis, my Lord, valet to Sir Langley. I’ve come to assist you.”

He has a rich north country accent from the wilds of Northumberland, if James is not mistaken. James has never been to Northumberland, or indeed to anywhere north of Derbyshire, but he has seen Thomas Bewick’s haunting engravings of the brooding, remote landscape of the county, and has read Scott’s descriptions of a land, thrillingly wild. This Lewis has a healthy, somewhat ruddy, complexion, and astonishingly blue eyes, from which James finds himself momentarily unable to withdraw his gaze. He’s suddenly aware of the lack of air in the room; the heat radiating from the fire in the grate. He tears his attention from the servant, back to his cuffs.

“Thank you, Lewis. I’m having a spot of bother with my cuffs. I can’t seem to—“ 

Lewis smiles sympathetically, as if there’s nothing ridiculous at all about a grown man struggling to dress himself. He comes to stand next to James, in front of the dressing mirror. “Let me help, my Lord.” He reaches for James’ arm. “They can be very tricky.”

James surrenders his arm and watches in silence as strong, blunt fingers smooth and fold the complicated fabric until it is transformed from a wrinkled mess into a perfectly acceptable cuff. 

“You’ve worked a miracle, Lewis.”

The valet chuckles. “Well, I’ve had a lot of practice, my Lord.” 

It’s only when the valet says, softly, “Would you like me to deal with the other cuff, my Lord?” that James realises he has not withdrawn his arm; that he has been gazing, transfixed, at his wrist, encircled as it is by Lewis’ fingers. 

“Yes, of course.” Somewhat flustered, he yields the other arm. Never talkative at the best of times, James finds himself unable to make the kind of inconsequential conversation generally expected between a gentleman and a valet. If Lewis finds this strange, he gives no indication. 

Both cuffs rescued, Lewis carefully looks him over, and James feels the heat rising through his throat and flooding into his cheeks at this attention. His face must be overspread with the deepest scarlet, which is as ridiculous as it is mortifying—to be this unnerved by a servant who is merely going about his business.

“Shall I see what I can do with that neck cloth, my Lord?” Lewis nods towards the cloth, which is currently tightly wound about James’s blazing throat. 

James is aware of a kind of restlessness rising in him. “Well, I—”

“It looks a little snug, my Lord. You don’t want to be uncomfortable; not with an evening of dancing ahead of you.”

“I won’t be dancing.” It’s out of his confounded mouth before he realises he’s even going to speak. What, in Heaven’s name is the matter with him?

“No?” Lewis sounds surprised. “You’ll be in great demand, my Lord, a fine, young gentleman like yourself.”

Of course a man in James’ position owes no servant an explanation, but he finds he can’t supress the urge to explain himself, anyway. “I am a mediocre dancer at best, and derive little pleasure from the pastime.” Truly, James has no idea why he’s confiding these thoughts to a servant, especially another man’s valet, but there’s something about this Lewis, an air of solidity and trustworthiness, that invites confidences.

Lewis briefly catches his eye in the mirror, and his extraordinary eyes, the colour of a flawless August sky, in the sacred hour before the rising of the sun, are soft with understanding. “Well, my Lord, if a long evening of trying to avoid dancing is ahead of you, it can only be made worse by being half-strangled by your own neck cloth.”

Which makes James laugh, despite himself, and truly, he can generate no objections, and so, doing his best to compose himself, he nods. Lewis steps up close to him and, with a delicacy one might not expect in such a substantial man, carefully unties the blasted cloth and unpeels it from James’ neck, like a nurse tenderly unwinding a bandage from a wounded limb.

James feels the discomfort in his throat ease a little as Lewis releases it from its binding, although, for some reason, the other man’s proximity seems to be fuelling James’ rising agitation. When James’ neck is fully exposed, Lewis shakes the cloth out and then begins the task of retying it, slowly wrapping the strips of soft fabric around James’ throat, gently pressing it against James’ skin. He’s methodical and careful in his work, silent as he concentrates, his face no more than a hand or two’s span from James’ own. Surely, this close, Lewis must be able to detect James’ unruly nerves?

And then, to test its fit, Lewis slides two fingers beneath the cloth. The backs of those fingers, his nails, his knuckles, brush down the side of James’ throat, inside the snug fabric—and it is unbearable. James has to close his eyes to survive the intimacy of it; the sudden, terrible need in him. 

He thinks about how little physical contact he has had in his life. The occasional, absent-minded kiss from his mother when he was a young boy, before he was considered too old for such nonsense. The practical, unaffectionate touch of his nanny as he was bathed and dressed as a child. And now, as a man? His sister's cool hand on his cheek as she wishes him good night. That is all. He realises his own valet has never touched his skin directly, or if he has, James has never registered it. But this man, this Lewis; James wants to lean against his broad chest; to feel himself gathered up in Lewis’ embrace. To place his lips on Lewis’ lips. It is unthinkable. 

James holds his breath and finally, finally, the job is done—the neck cloth is situated and tied to Lewis’ satisfaction, and with a final sweep of his hands across James’ shoulders, smoothing out his jacket, the valet steps back to assess the results of his work. He directs a smile at James. “Well, the good news, my Lord, is that you look very fine, very handsome indeed. The bad news—I fear you will have your work cut out, avoiding the many demands to dance with the lovely young ladies of Oxfordshire.” 

There is nothing inappropriate in what Lewis is saying to him. Indeed, it is understood that a valet’s job is not merely to ensure that his gentleman greets society dressed as well as can be, but also that he engages in the cut and thrust of his busy life feeling confident in his appearance, boosted by regular, well-placed compliments from his valet. Indeed, James’ valet, Martindale, has his own line in encouraging comments about James’ stature and his master’s ability to show off a tailcoat to its best advantage. James has never paid any great attention to these well-meant observations, being, as he is—as he _was_ , until this moment—profoundly disinterested in matters of appearance.

But, oh! How everything is changed! His heart is aflight, beating its determined wings against the constrictions of his ribcage. It is outrageous that a few kind words from a servant can thrill him in this manner. And, apart from the obvious issue of this reaction being to a man’s attentions, it is surely shameful to be reacting thus to a servant, who has no choice but to be here, serving him in this way. Except, despite being unwaveringly respectful, nothing about Lewis’ manner has had a hint of subservience about it. He may be Langley’s valet, but he has a dignity and authority about him that must ensure respect, regardless of his position. It is evident he is very much his own man.

James is all turmoil and confusion, and in this state he has a fancy that Lewis is as reluctant to leave him as he himself is to be left. But surely this is an imagined thing? There can be no possible basis in reality for this feeling, this hope. And yet, Lewis has not withdrawn. He remains less than an arm’s length away from James, and he continues to regard James warmly. 

“Is there anything more I can do for you, my Lord? Perhaps you would like me to unpack your other clothes?” He glances around for James’ overnight case.

Damn it all! Determined to save Langley’s staff extra work when the house is full of guests, and with a ball to prepare, unpacking his few things for the overnight stay had been the very first thing he’d done after he’d been shown to the room. “Thank you, but no. It is all done.” James can hear the regret in his voice. How strange he must seem to this Lewis.

“Very good, my Lord.” Lewis still does not withdraw. He casts his gaze around the room, as if searching for some other occupation to keep him here. But this cannot be so; surely, it is mere wishful thinking on James’ part? He finds himself currently incapable of distinguishing between reality and matters of his awakened imagination. His whole being rails against the impossibility of the circumstance.

Lewis quietly clears his throat: “You are quite sure there is nothing else I can assist you with, my Lord?” 

However unlikely a possibility it seems, James, forever afterwards, when he thinks on this moment; well, he will always be convinced that Lewis was significantly regretful at finding no reason to remain; no reason to allow him to stay with James.

But in this moment, James can think of nothing he can ask of the man, nothing that can be spoken. And so, finally, he has to dismiss Lewis, and the man goes, leaving him alone and breathless, as if he had just run from his own house to this room, as if he had been wild and free, racing through the night like a fox or hare. 

The door closes, with Lewis lost to the world on the other side of it. 

James collapses onto the edge of the bed, deeply shaken; newly known to himself.

**Author's Note:**

> Some literary notes:
> 
> The title of the fic is a quote from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen
> 
> William Wordsworth attended university in Cambridge and wrote poetry about his time there
> 
> Amos Simon Cottle and Robert Southey did indeed produce an English translation of: Icelandic Poetry: Or The Edda of Sæmund
> 
> Walter Scott's Rob Roy was published in 1817, and is partly set in Northumberland


End file.
